


More than Medals

by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce)



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: 200 IM, 2016 Summer Olympics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:16:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7748248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisNameWasAce/pseuds/YourFadedGlory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan goes to the medal ceremony. He can’t not go. It isn’t that he feels obligated to Mike or the team or his image. He does it for himself, because in ten years’ time he doesn’t want to regret not being there. So he goes. He towels off, pulls on sweats, and fights the crush of people that want to pat his shoulder and congratulate him on his career that by some unanimous vote—which hadn’t included himself— is now apparently over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than Medals

**Author's Note:**

> _**“You never lose by loving. You always lose by holding back.”**  
>  ― Barbara De Angelis_

Ryan goes to the medal ceremony. He can’t _not_ go. It isn’t that he feels obligated to Mike or the team or his image. He does it for himself, because in ten years’ time he doesn’t want to regret not being there. So he goes. He towels off, pulls on sweats, and fights the crush of people that want to pat his shoulder and congratulate him on his career that by some unanimous vote—which hadn’t included himself— is now apparently over.

 

Sixteen years they’ve been swimming this race, sixteen years Mike has stood at the top of the podium. It’s a little strange, getting to look down at him, instead of having to look up. Ryan leaned against the railing, catching the glimmer of tears in Mike’s eyes, the swipe of his tongue against his teeth a phantom sensation in his own mouth. The opening notes of the anthem swelled through the aquatic center and for a split moment their eyes met.

 

Ryan couldn’t help but grin, wide open and easy. Mike was where he belonged, where he deserved to be, and if that wasn’t something to smile about he didn’t know what was. Offering a small wave, Ryan committed the subtle upward tick of Mike’s lips to his memory, a private and medal-less victory.

 

As the music faded and Mike disappeared back into the bowels of the beast, Ryan slipped back into the crowd and let the stream of slowly but steadily moving spectators sweep him along into the night. He probably should have gone back to the team, caught an ice bath or something. But the knotted up ache in his gut and the tightness in his chest seldom felt like things that a bit of ice or company could numb.

 

There’s a shuttle ride that passes in a haze of Little Wayne and too bright fluorescent lights, a walk up to an empty room and a subsequent walk down when the quiet ad darkness gets to be too much. For a moment, just a moment, he wants things to stop. It’s the quiet lullaby of white capped waves sweeping up a sandy shore that draws him home to the sea.

 

It takes a bit of walking to find a dark stretch of shore. Ryan kicked off his shoes, forgot them a few yards up the beach somewhere. The sand was cool between his toes, he curled them in, looking for earth that was even colder, a counter against the hot and cloying humid air that stuck to his lungs and set fire to his chest.

 

The heat seared upwards into his eyes, there was no graceful way to fold down onto his knees, so Ryan kind of just crumpled inward. He sucked in breath after breath until finally it all just tore free in a sob that came retching up his throat like bile.

 

Waves came lapping up the shore, Ryan sat in their wake, his knees curled up to his chest as he stared into the dark maw of the sea. There were no starting blocks here, no lane lines, no clock on the wall to tell him whether or not he was still worth his salt. Just water with no feasible direction or intent, roiling with unseen currents and untouched depths.

 

* * *

 

 

It was well after one in the morning by the time Mike managed to make his way back to the Village. He didn’t expect Ryan to be asleep but he pushed the door open gingerly anyway. Inside it was dark and still, both beds empty and cold. Setting his bag aside, Mike checked the shower, concern prickling under his skin.

 

He dug his phone out of his bag, skimming through Snapchat and Instagram to see if he could piece together where Ryan had gone. Neither account had been updated in hours, Mike couldn’t decide if that was for the better or worse.

 

Pocketing his keys and grabbing a jacket, he set off to find Ryan.

 

After ruling out the bars within easy walking distance of the Village as a precaution, Mike had to stop and think. Beneath the rumble of feet on pavement and the hum of street lights came the answer, a soft whisper of waves, a natural call home for any Floridian raised swimmer.

 

Mike found the shoes first, beacons of neon green in the dark stretch of sand. He wasn’t all that partial to the brightly colored atrocities his teammates called footwear, but shoes were something of a guilty pleasure for Ryan. Mike knew he’d regret abandoning them to the salt and sand crabs so he scooped them up and shook them out, glad to know that he was – at the very least—going in the right direction.

 

A few more paces up the beach and Mike finally saw him, a hunched silhouette with a thatch of silver hair, shuddering against the cold wind sweeping in off the water. He padded across the sand, gently draping the jacket around Ryan’s shoulders. The USA emblem on the front and back emitting a soft white light, just enough to cast shadows across the sharp cut of Ryan’s cheek bones and highlight the red rim around his eyes.

 

“Hey,” Mike said softly, reaching out to cup one side of Ryan’s face, smoothing his thumb across his cheek to catch a slow rolling tear.

 

* * *

 

 

Ryan pressed his face into Mike’s palm, closing his eyes and relishing the warmth of it. He could smell chlorine and sandal wood, remnants of the pool and what Mike had used to try and wash it away. Ryan took a moment just to breathe it in, blue eyes sliding open tiredly to meet brown. “Hi.”

 

That seemed to be all the permission Mike needed, the next moment Ryan found himself lowered gently onto his back, six feet-four inches and a hundred and ninety-four pounds of Olympic Champion spread across him in a human blanket.

 

“I’m proud of you.” The whisper was hot against the shell of Ryan’s ear, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold breeze running down his spine. He could feel Mike twining their fingers together, pushing his arms above his head and exposing the faded Olympic rings on his right bicep. Mike pressed a kiss to the storied ink, working his way in from Ryan’s bicep and toward his neck, goosebumps prickling in his wake.

 

Ryan shuddered at the feel of Mike’s teeth scraping his pulse point, working ever upward until their lips met.  A warm kiss that had Mike licking at the seam that separated them until Ryan relented and parted his lips to welcome the slick heat of Mike’s tongue against his own. That phantom feeling from the stands so much better when it was physical, when he could pull his wrists from Mike’s grasp and tangle his fingers in dark brown hair and hook his feet at the small of his back and cling to him.

 

Ryan blinked slowly when they broke for air, feeling for the first time that night that he could breathe without fighting for it. Mike held his gaze, close enough that Ryan could see himself reflected in their brown depths.

 

“After London,” Ryan started, carding his fingers through Mike’s hair. “What did you do, when it stopped being fun?”

 

Mike smiled softly, sliding a hand under Ryan’s shirt and tracing the planes and ridges of his chiseled torso. “When it stopped being fun and I realized it had stopped being fun, I went looking for you. I found _you_. That summer in [Mesa](https://www.scmp.com/sites/default/files/2014/04/25/spo-swi-arena-grand-prix-at-mesa.jpg), remember?”

 

Ryan did remember. A sky that stretched on forever, warm skin and hot nights, reaching across lane lines and then reaching across the bed. It had been everything he wanted and so much more.

 

“After Rio, when it stops being fun for me…where will I find you?” Ryan asked, clutching at the back of Mike’s neck.

 

He felt the hands beneath his shirt shift, sliding along his back until Mike’s fingers found the Gator, tracing the Greek scrawl beside it.

 

[Πρώτα.](http://cdn-wpmsa.defymedia.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/3/2012/07/lochte1_2173802i.jpeg)

 

_First_.

 

First taste of competition. First rival. First love— and last.

 

“I’ll be right beside you,” Mike promised. “I love _you_.”

 

Ryan smiled into the kiss that Mike pressed against his lips, all the fear and tension bleeding from his body. “I love you too.”

 

He didn't need lanes lines or starting blocks or that goddamn clock. He didn't have to push beyond the aches of his aging body to race for gold. The man in his arms, anchoring him in the dark with the sea lapping at their ankles, he was worth more than any medal ever would be.

**Author's Note:**

> The 200 IM crushed me, so this happened.  
> Kudos and feedback is always very much appreciated.


End file.
